Ashamed
by Ashplosion
Summary: "You wonder if it's protesting your thoughts of her, or if it's really protesting the thoughts you're trying to force on yourself. You shut your eyes and try to focus on Adam. The only image you can conjure, is a strong-willed Eve." M for sexual content.


You're sweating.

You aren't sure how long you've been doing this, but it doesn't really matter. You're alone for now, and there's stillness in your room, in your heart that helps you focus. Your mind is the problem.

Your fingers pick up the pace. You try to concentrate. You try to bring your mind to your boyfriend-of-the-week, but you can't even remember his name right now. Your mind wanders. You try to arrest your thoughts; they will not stray. It's hopeless, and you hate yourself for it.

God damn it, you tell yourself. Get a fucking grip.

You fixate on a specific spot on the ceiling and try to feel his skin against yours. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you try to keep him there, keep him present. You won't let him get this far, but for right now, you can pretend, right? It isn't like your thoughts don't constantly run from you while you do this.

His skin is against you, his nose brushes yours, and he's kissing you. But your mind rebels and the ghost you're kissing isn't like What's-His-Name at all. This kiss is slow, lazy almost, and so much softer. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

You're frustrated.

Adam. That's his name. You feel a little better about your efforts now. You hope it means you can focus now. You watch your hand become his, mumble his name, and sip in a slow breath of air. You're doing your best to remain focused. You're doing a good job. His breath is sweet on your neck, and your phantom-boyfriend bites your neck. You close your eyes and moan in appreciation. Your slender fingertips continue to work their magic, and it feels so damn good. You smile as you think of him and your pleasure starts to build.

But when you open your eyes again, all you see is blonde. Her hair feathers over your face and she kisses you hard. You want her. Suddenly, it's back. That electric pulse, that surge of excitement you craved shoots through you. Your lower lip wedges between your teeth, and you can feel her teeth slipping over the hollow of your throat.

Your hand falters.

You're close, and God knows you don't want to stop. Your breath is ragged; it rips through the stale air in your room in a fashion that sounds alien to your ears. Somehow, your hand has disconnected from your brain. "This isn't right!" it cries. You wonder if it is protesting your thoughts of _her_, or if it is really protesting the thoughts you're trying to force on yourself. You shut your eyes and try to focus on Adam again. The only image you can conjure, though, is a strong-willed Eve, touching you, kissing you, whispering in your ear, professing love for you.

You're too fucked in the head to do this right now. But god damn if you aren't close. You forcefully arrest your thoughts back on to Adam, Shane, Freddie... Hell, even Gibby would work right now. You can't be gay. You just can't. Maybe Adam just isn't the guy for you. Yes, that must be it.

Your arousal is dying down. But you're still so close. Why can't you just get off already? It wasn't this hard a few weeks ago. You slide your finger out of yourself and focus on a different area. That should help, unless your traitorous mind starts to wander. You won't give it that option, you decide.

You remember deciding Adam was the one you'd give your virginity to. He's sweet, good-looking, and an amazing kisser. Now you're back on track. Then, that one night, he'd kissed your neck and told you he loved you. You weren't ready. He wrapped his strong arms around you and whispered "it's okay, Cupcake" in your hair as blonde mixed with your brown.

Cupcake? Your fingers jerk away from you reflexively. God damn it! You were almost there. And now you're so pissed off because you've wanted this release for ages now. If you don't get off, you're going to go insane. The tension has been eating away at you for days, and you're so stressed it's not even funny. You need to relax. You need to feel the dull, insistent pull in the pit of your stomach melt away. You need to enjoy yourself. You need to pay attention to yourself, and you know you've neglected yourself. You desperately need to get off.

Fuck it, you decide.

You let the curtain of blonde hair fall over your cheeks as you kiss her again, hot and hungry this time. Her weight feels so real against you. Her hand ghosts down your side and back up to your chest. The soft flesh there yields to her grasp, and you gasp into her mouth with how good it feels.

You're so close now.

You moan softly, her name barely a whisper on your lips. You want her so very badly, and she's so close with you. Her hand presses more insistently at you, and you know it's a matter of seconds. You let out a breathless "kiss me," and she does. She kisses you deeply and lovingly. You pour your soul into kissing the phantom of this woman.

Your back arches off the bed. She continues in her delightful torture of your body, and you think you dig your nails into her back. You know you moan her name; it's long, low, and breathless.

Time stops.

You tremble as you kiss her back and buck against her hand shamefully. One hand finds it way to the sheets; your knuckles turn white as your fingers tangle in them. She's still there, kissing your neck and mumbling words you can't hear and pressing against you. You whisper that you love her. She's stained your brain now.

Your body falls back to your bed.

Your eyes snap open.

She's gone.

You have never felt so god damned ashamed in your life.


End file.
